


Temptation

by rhysndtrash



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boarding School
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:30:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8343556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysndtrash/pseuds/rhysndtrash
Summary: Feyre has just been accepted to Prythian Academy, a boarding school for gifted teens, where she’ll meet her new roommate Mor and her unusual group of friends, including an attractive cousin she’s determined not to like.





	1. Chapter 1

Feyre Archeron made a face as her father pulled over at the looming iron gates of Prythian Academy. This would not, in any way, shape, or form, be fun. Her sister, Elain, had been jealous when she’d arrived home one day from her art course with a letter from a prestigious school in the north, where she, by recommendation of her teacher, had been accepted and granted a scholarship. But despite what everyone kept saying to her about the ‘fantastic opportunity’, Feyre couldn’t help but feel a bit bitter about not having a choice about going.

As soon as her father had heard of the scholarship, he’d demanded that she pack her belongings and go. Just like that, a whole life of planning for, well, her life in her small town was over and done with.

Now she was doomed to go to school with a bunch of rich kids who probably had a lot more talent than she would ever have and—Gods, she was going to have a panic attack.

There was only one part of her, one small part that was glad, so glad to be gone, to disappear completely. The part that had listened to explanation after explanation and gotten hit in the face with more and more abuse and couldn’t take it any longer and—no, she wasn’t going down that rabbit hole again.

“Well, we’re here.” her father said, looking at her like he was waiting for her to make the first move. “Do you want me to help you with the bags?”

“No, I’ve got it, Dad.” she said, pulling the straps of her purse to her shoulder as she walked to the trunk of the car, opening it and getting the large wheeled platinum bag from inside before putting it on the ground with a THUMP.

 

 

After a long, boring talk with the Dean of Prythian Academy, Feyre and her dad finally stood up—one step closer to the peace and quiet probably awaiting her in her dorm room. As her father and the Dean, a blonde haired woman named Ianthe, exchanged pleasantries, and Feyre took the time to look outside the window.

It was late March, a strange time for a new student to enroll, and the changing leaves left beautiful grounds for the students to walk, sit on, and run around in—not that Feyre thought that that was permitted here in this fancy school.

A knock sounded at the door, jolting Feyre out of her reverie, and Ianthe said, “Oh, yes, that’s probably Morrigan right now,” as if they would know who that was.

Well, to be fair, she probably had said something when Feyre wasn’t paying attention—which, admittedly was the whole time they were here.

The Dean opened the door, where another girl stood waiting. She was beautiful in a way Feyre could never see herself being, all soft turns and full curves and sharp edges, with a halo of wavy golden hair and eyes the softest brown Feyre had ever seen.

“Hey, Dean Falsum, am I late? Sorry, um,” the girl sounded a bit breathless, as if she’d been running to get here. “I was—I, um—”

“Morrigan!” Dean Falsum interrupted enthusiastically, clapping her hands once before placing the right one on Morrigan’s back. “You’re here! Good,” Dean Falsum lead the girl into the room and in front of Feyre. “This,” she smiled, “Is Feyre Archeron, the roommate I told you about.” Roommate? She was going to have to share a room with this girl? Oh Gods, what if she’s horrible?

But Morrigan didn’t seem horrible. Not when she smiled warmly at Feyre, and certainly not when she said, “Hey, roomie!”

“Now,” the Dean continued to Morrigan, “I know you were both promised a single this year but we could not arrange that in such a short time so I hope you find it in your hearts to thinks of yourselves as friends, sisters even,” she gave them a feline smile. “Yes? Good.”

“Well, I think that I should be going.” Feyre’s father said, looking between her and his wristwatch apologetically.

“Okay, Dad.” Feyre tried her best to smile.

She was not close to her parents—and wasn’t thick as thieves with her sisters either, though their relationship was leagues better, and she knew, she knew now, more than ever, that if she needed them they would be there for her—but it still pained her to see him gone, even if only because it was the last strand of normalcy being taken away from her.

Feyre hugged her father goodbye, and watched him leave, waiting for the Dean to start speaking about sisterhood and academic records again.

“Feyre, I hope you find yourself happy within these walls as I once was,” the older woman took her hand and shook it. “Enjoy your time here and explore as much as like. You might even learn a thing or two,” she smirked a bit and then looked at Morrigan. “Now, Morrigan will show you to your room. You have all the schedules and information already and I have asked her to be your guide these first few days, so if you have any questions just ask her or come visit me anytime.” She touched Feyre’s shoulder. “Okay?”

“Yes, thank you, Dean Falsum.” Feyre smiled politely and followed Morrigan outside the room.

The two girls walked in silence for a couple of minutes through the echoing stone corridors of the Academy before Morrigan said, “So, you’re here for the Arts program, right?” she gave a big, warm smile. “I’m so jealous, I wish I could draw!”

“ Yeah,” Feyre murmured, still testing the waters with this new, unknown girl. “I paint mostly, actually.”

“Oh, that’s even better! You must show me some of your work when we get to my—I mean our room, sorry.” She laughed, embarrassed but somehow still sure of herself.

“No problem,” Feyre said. “I’m going to have to get used to sharing a room with someone, too. I only just got my own room at home.”

“Aw, man, I’m sorry. I hope my company won’t suck that much,” Morrigan answered in a self-deprecating tone that was much too perfect for someone as beautiful as she was.

“Somehow, I don’t think it will, Morrigan.”

The blonde haired girl pulled a face. “Please don’t call me that.”

“What? Morrigan?” Another twist of her face and a scrunched up nose. “What should I call you, then?”

“Mor.”

 

 

Feyre was starting to get lost when they turned down yet another corridor and five doors down, four people were sitting in a small circle outside a dark wooden door no different to any other.

Please don’t be it, please don’t be it, please don’t be it.

“Here we are.” Mor said enthusiastically, waving to the only girl in the circle as the approached. “Door 66. Remember this. When you’re lost, the numbers help.”

“Mor!” said one of the boys, standing up to greet them. He had dark hair, tan skin and elegant features. Mor stepped into his reach and gave him a light peck on the lips.

“Feyre, this is my boyfriend, Azriel,” she said, beaming at him. “May I ask what it is you all are doing here?”

“Waiting for the fresh meat of course,” one of the other boys said, mischief gleaming in his hazel eyes. The girl seating beside him elbowed him, hard.

“Don’t go scaring her off, Cassian,” the girl said.

“That’s usually your job, Amren,” Cassian answered with a large smirk.

“With all your talk of getting to know our new guest, you haven’t even asked for her name, Cassian,” said a rich voice from behind the hazel eyed boy.

And that’s when she saw him.

He was, undoubtedly, the most handsome man she had ever seen. His eyes glowed a rich violet that contrasted to his tan skin, and designs formed in the planes of his chest and disappeared beneath his shirt. He had dark, blue-black hair and wore fine, rich clothes. Everything about him screamed refined, and he was at the same time everything Feyre’d wanted and wanted to avoid.

He stood up and offered his hand to her. She stared. “What’s your name, darling?”

Darling? She recomposed herself, taking his hand and shaking it. “I’m Feyre.”

“Well, Feyre, darling, I’m Rhysand. Rhys. And we’re your Welcome Wagon!” the boy—Rhys—said with a big smirk, sizing her up.

Mor put a hand on her shoulder. “You’ll have to excuse my cousin, Feyre. He has a few issues understanding personal space.” She finally turned, putting a key in the small lock on the door and everyone entered the room, throwing her arms out as if to say TA-DA! “Welcome home, I suppose.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre hangs out with the Squadre, wanders around the school and even ends up in one of the Academy's broom closets... with someone.

Feyre felt exhausted. After six hours of traveling to the Academy with her father, making small talk about what her classes would probably be like, and pretending she was a lot more excited than she actually was, she’d at least expected to have some peace and quiet here at the school. But instead she had this:

“It’s just so unfair!” Cassian exclaimed. “She doesn’t even get to, I don’t know, fight back—”

“Get over it already,” Amren rolled her eyes at him sighing as if she’d heard this a million times. “It’s a TV show, you’ll survive.”

“No, I won’t.” he moaned, dropping his head back to rest upon the wall, and closed his eyes. He and Amren were seated in the two comfortable neon colored beanbag chairs Feyre had assumed Mor had brought with her to school—certainly the Academy didn’t provide them with such extravagance—, and her roommate had dropped down on her bed with her boyfriend, Azriel, the moment the door had closed behind her. Which led to the current predicament: how she was perched on the bed as far away as possible from the boy—man—with the violet eyes, the eyes that kept searching her as if they could find something she could not.

“What I want to know,” Rhysand said in that deep, sensual voice, looking at Feyre and smiling ferociously. “Is what Feyre here thinks of the school so far.”

Feyre shifted uncomfortably as the attention from the room moved over to her, and bit her lip before saying, “I like it.”

“Liar!” Rhysand drawled, smirking at her. Amren snorted.

“No, I do,” she insisted, feeling a little less like she was lying this time. “It’s just so different, you know?” she had to take a breath to put her thoughts into words. “I mean, I’m not used to all this luxury—oh, Gods that must sound so judgmental, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t worry about it.” Amren said. “If there’s anything these boys don’t have, it’s filter. And me and Mor are just plain used to it.”

Feyre smiled.

“Where’d you go before?”

“I went to public school in my hometown my whole life,” Feyre said shyly, a bit embarrassed by the topic of the conversation. “My family doesn’t have that much money, to be quite honest.”

“Hey, neither does mine,” Cassian said, smiling at her from his place in the green beanbag chair at the foot of her bed. “I’m here on a scholarship.”

“Really? What’s your specialty?”

“Music.” he replied. “I play the guitar.”

“Oh, that’s so cool!” Feyre smiled bashfully at him. “Do you write as well?”

Cassian seemed to perk up at the topic. “Yes, I’ve been playing with this drummer, Lucien, he’s quite good—you know, for a freshman. We’ve been writing some stuff.”

“Well, I’d love to hear it sometime.” she replied politely.

After that, conversation flowed and Feyre let her mind wander. What was this experience going to be like? She hadn’t let herself imagine it was going to be anything but bad, but now that she was here, surrounded by these people, she was not so sure. Her first and second art classes were tomorrow, along with literature and math and chemistry, and after seeing Cassian’s enthusiasm for his “specialty”—as they called their majors on Prythian Academy—she couldn’t help but feel a little more excited.

 

The next day, Feyre was woken up by Mor’s alarm clock, and seeing the other girl didn’t even budge at the sound of it, she sighed and stood up, heading to the other bed to gently shake her awake for classes. She wondered how the girl ever woke up before she’d gotten here—as she had tossed and turned all night, anxious about what the next day would be like and had seen first hand what a heavy sleeper she was—, but realized her boyfriend probably came to check on her if she didn’t make it to breakfast.

After waking up her roommate, Feyre changed to her school uniform—a pleated skirt, shirt and tie, and embroidered navy blazer—and gathered her things as fast as she could—getting her schedule and map of the Academy, along with her drawing pad and different kinds of pencils and sharp charcoal sticks—, which wasn’t very fast at all, since they were each at one corner of the room and of her baggage. Luckily, Mor took forever to get ready; putting on knee high black socks and heeled combat boots, an impeccably ironed uniform, and then applying her makeup carefully.

A few moments later Mor turned to her, face delicately painted and hair perfect, not a single strand out of place, and asked, “You ready?” Feyre nodded, and her roommate indicated the door.

They left the room, walking the long stone corridors in silence. Mor wasn’t much of a morning talker, and Feyre felt like enjoying the quiet while it lasted—surely her roommate’s friends would be waiting for them at breakfast.

By the time they reached the cafeteria, Feyre was completely lost—again. But Mor stuck by her side, pointing out classrooms and residential areas, never faltering a step.

The cafeteria was filled to the brim with people, and conversation flowed around the room loudly, but it was not as deafening as Feyre’d expected. As soon as they entered the room, her eyes instantly searched for her roommate’s friends, knowing there was where she would sit, and felt suddenly glad that she had not gotten her single room, or she would be sitting alone today. She found them standing in line for food and moved to stand at the end of the line, a few groups behind Amren and the boys, while Mor went to talk to them.

The line moved slowly, but pretty soon she was standing before loads and loads of delicious food. Once she reached the tureens of various breakfast selections, she extended a hand toward the porridge, stomach grumbling hungrily.

Someone touched her hand. “You don’t want to do that.”

Feyre turned. There, in all his uniformed glory, stood a smirking Rhysand, expression just as intense and searching as he’d always seemed. His hand felt warm on hers, soft and tan like the rest of him. She pulled her arm back.

“What?”

“The porridge,” Rhysand’s smirk didn’t falter, the sensual lines of his face laced with mischief and something else, something she couldn’t quite figure out. He pointed at the dish she was just about to grab, and she raised an eyebrow. “It’s the worst food from around here, the cooks always put too much sugar in.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip—and his eyes followed the movement—, and seemed to take a moment to think.

“If you want my opinion, you should totally go with the waffles.” Rhysand smiled. “José makes the best waffles in all of Prythian.”

“Who’s José?”

“One of the cooks. He was actually enrolled here a few years ago and now he’s working here to pay for college,” he explained with ease. She looked at him strangely, because this was not something she’d expected a rich kid going to a school like this to know. But then again, she was going here, too, right? “Anyway, the bacon is good too but I definitely recommend—”

“Hey, Feyre!” Mor’s voice sounded from behind her.

Feyre suddenly noticed how close she and Rhysand were standing. She could feel his warmth through their clothes, smell his scent, feel his eyes boring holes on her face. She took a step back.

“Hey,” Feyre cleared her throat. “Mor!”

“We’re waiting for you over at the table by the window, okay?” she didn’t seem to notice their proximity, or care about anyway. She had a tray of her own and Feyre raised an eyebrow. “I cut the line,” she explained.

“Um,” Feyre looked at Rhysand, who smirked at her—the bastard—, apparently aware of her discomfort, and then back at Mor, before grabbing a plate of waffles. “Yeah, I’m coming.”

 

Her first art class left Feyre feeling like she could not even draw a straight line right compared to some of her classmates. Alis Aestes, the teacher of Sketching 101, was a nice, plump woman with brown hair and kind eyes.

“See you next class!” Alis said as the students got up from their seats and started to leave the classroom. Feyre gathered her things, putting her drawing pad and charcoal stick into her bag, and stood up, heading out the door, before she heard, “Feyre? Feyre Archeron?”

She turned to face her teacher, Mrs. Aestes. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to welcome you,” the woman said kindly, putting down the papers she’d been holding and sitting down on her table at the front of the classroom. “Your sketches today were lovely, I really liked what I saw. Keep up the good work!”

Feyre blushed, touched by the words. “T—thank you, Mrs. Aestes.”

She suddenly felt her cellphone buzzing in her pocket, but ignored it. This was more important.

“You’re welcome,” Mrs. Aestes said, smiling. “Now, you have classes to get to, and I have things to do, so I’ll let you go, but if you have any questions or ever need anything, I am always here, okay?”

“Yeah, thank you, Mrs. Aestes.” Feyre said, nodding goodbye. She turned to leave and had only reached the door again when the teacher called:

“Oh and Feyre?” the woman was smiling sweetly, and it was contagious. “Please, call me Alis. All my students do.”

As Feyre got into the hall and checked her phone to see why it’d buzzed, all color drained from her face.

 

“I don’t know where you think you’re going, just up and leaving like this, but think of what this means for us! There’s still an us, Feyre. What about ME—”

She didn’t know how she’d ended up in this broom closet.

Her head was resting against the cold stone wall, her feet wedged between buckets and mops, and she felt somehow cold and hot at the same time.

“—please come home right now. I promise I will make it up to you—”

Promises. More promises, always these promises. Stupid promises.

She stopped the message. She couldn’t hear any more of it.

Tamlin’s voice was deafining. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything but the void that loving him had left in her. She’d thought she had finally escaped this, she had thought she could go somewhere far and never look back, but here he was, ever present, and he was not going to leave.

It was only when Feyre sank down, hugging her knees to her chest, shaking, that she realised she was crying.

She didn’t know how long she was in there before a knock sounded. “Hey, is someone in here?” the door cracked open, and Rhysand’s face appeared in the gap. “Feyre?”

She quickly wiped her face, embarrassed. She probably looked terrible, her hair a messy bun on top of her head, her face puffy and red. “Yeah, I—I’m just—” she sighed. “I needed a moment.”

He searched her face with those expressive violet eyes, and then nodded. Then he opened the door a little bit further and motioned to the small space beside Feyre. “Do you mind?”

She did, a bit. She wanted to be alone right now, be alone and cry, and hate the world and resent herself by herself. But instead she said, “No.”

He moved effortlessly to her side and dropped down to a sitting position with more grace than should be allowed in a cramped broom closet, facing her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not—not really.” her voice shook.

“Well, that’s okay,” Rhysand said. “I can think of other ways we can spend our time,” he smirked, but Feyre didn’t smile back.

Suddenly, he reached for her hand and wrapped both of his around hers. “I’m just going to hold your hand,” he explained. “Because you look like you really need a friend right now.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feyre and Rhys are involved in an unfortunate event, and all the lights go out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The much awaited Part III is finally here! Hey guys, I’m sorry for the wait, but this one took a while to think of and lay it all out and write it all down. I wanted to post this yesterday, but I wasn’t really happy with how things were and I think waiting a bit more paid off. I hope you guys don’t mind. Anyway, part three is finally here! I hope you like it! Feedback is always greatly appreciated, and as always, big thanks to @gryffindormischief for helping me out all the time and betaing this fic for me.

Feyre didn’t know how long her and Rhysand had been sitting in the narrow broom closet across from the Library, in complete silence. He hadn’t let go of her hand yet, and their linked palms rested in Feyre’s lap as his fingers traced slow circles on her hand. It was nice to be, finally, in the quiet and have someone there to enjoy it with her.

She had been on the verge of a panic attack when he’d found her and yet, he hadn’t demanded anything from her, not a single explanation. It was something new to her, something foreign, something good.

After a while, though, that silence between them grew stale and loud in its own way, and Feyre drew her arm back “I think we should go back. Mor is probably looking for me, or for you or—don’t you have classes?”

Rhysand laughed, standing up and offering a hand to her. “Yes, I have classes, but I needed a book from the Library and I heard you crying.” he explained. “So now I’m here. Your company is a lot better than math class, by the way.”

She laughed, taking his hand and getting up, all the while looking down, refusing to meet his intense gaze. “Thank you for this. No one has ever done anything like this for me,” she said, and she realized she meant it. “I won’t forget it.”

He smiled at her. “I think you’ll find, Feyre, that once you let people in, they can be pretty relentless in making you happy.”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. They opened the door and—oh, Gods.

The stone hall was filled with people leaving the Library, coming in from the classrooms’ area and standing by lockers. Heads everywhere turned towards them, and she felt her face flush.

Whispers echoed on the stone walls as Rhysand put a hand against her back, willing her forward, and they started ever so slowly walking through the gathered students, towards somewhere—anywhere—else.

 

 

“Well, hello, Mr. and Mrs. Stella.” said Amren as she finally, finally, entered her and Mor’s room, throwing her bag on her bed and then promptly falling onto her roommate’s beanbag chair, across from Cassian.

“Oh, not you, too.” Feyre moaned and Rhysand laughed, closing the door behind him. They had come together from their last class of the day—chemistry—and were followed by more and more whispers and side comments from students everywhere.

“Whatever do you mean, oh Rhysand’s mistress?” Cassian said, huge smirk on his face.

Feyre wanted to punch him.

“He was helping me, okay? Nothing happened.”

“And by helping, do you mean getting you off, because I don’t have a problem imagining that.” he countered.

She did punch him then. On the shoulder, though.

“Ow! Ow, ow.” Cassian gripped his shoulder, laughing a sad, sad little laugh, before saying, “Okay, I’ll stop.”

“Thank you.”

“What were you doing in a closet though?” Mor said. She was sprawled on her bed, head on Azriel’s lap, while his fingers ran circles on her scalp.

“I—” Feyre flushed, unsure if she was ready to have this many people, and these people, knowing she had been crying, and especially why she’d been crying. Sure, Rhysand hadn’t demanded an explanation but—but these people might and—and she didn’t know if she was ready for that.

“She was a bit freaked out by the school and she missed her family,” Rhysand said. “So I calmed her down a bit and we called her parents and it all worked out in the end.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Feyre.” Mor said, smiling sincerely from her place in Az’s lap.

She braced herself for the pity and sorrow that would surely follow, but was met with only comforting glances and a pat on the shoulder from Cassian. Huh.

“Hey, it gets better.” Mor said to her. “My first night here, I cried myself to sleep because I had no friends except this idiot,” she pointed at Rhysand. “And I didn’t know what I was doing with all this expensive equipment and I thought I was going to flunk out.”

“You were a fussy little freshman, weren’t you?” Cassian laughed from beside her.

Soon, Feyre forgot about everything that’d been troubling her, relaxing into her chair, talking and listening to their stories and laughing at Cassian’s terrible cracks at jokes.

 

 

“Aren’t you going to go with them?” Feyre asked, wondering why Rhysand hadn’t moved from his place on Mor’s bed. He was reading a book—a big, heavy volume—and seemed so focused on it he hadn’t noticed the others leaving the room—all but Feyre, who was too tired to eat. She snapped her fingers vaguely in his direction. “Rhys?”

“Sorry.” he said, smiling sheepishly, before closing the book and setting it down next to him and turning wholly to her. “No. I'm—I’m not hungry.”

She raised an eyebrow—wasn’t Rhysand always hungry? “Okay.” she said, slowly, and stood up, going over to sit across from him on the bed. “I thought your hunger was never ending though.”

“Oh, it is.” he laughed. “It’s just—contained.”

She snorted, punching his shoulder lightly—differently from how she had done with Cassian earlier, more intimate somehow, more friendly—, and settled into the mattress until she got comfortable enough.

He looked out the window for a moment—it had started to rain, and it was pouring out there—and Feyre looked at him, searching the lines of his face—she didn’t know for what exactly. Rhysand glanced back at her and she realized she’d been staring. “What?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, blushing. “Sorry—I just—” she looked away, to Mor’s books, carefully stacked against the wall in no particular order—because she either didn’t care that much or had a system of her own and Feyre didn’t know her well enough to know it.

“What?” Rhysand repeated, looking at her so intently he bore holes into her head.

“Why do you always act like—like you don’t care?” she said, looking back at him. “Why act like you don’t care when you so obviously do?”

He laughed. “And why is it so obvious that I do exactly?”

“Well,” Feyre turned toward him completely now, legs so close to his she could almost feel his warmth through the fabric of her jeans. “You helped me today without asking for anything in return. And when I didn’t want to tell everyone what happened, you helped me again—”

“Well, maybe that’s just because I want to get into your pants.”

And just like that, the moment was broken. She pulled her whole body away from him, the closeness between them disappearing completely, and she said, “You are unbelievable.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” he laughed as she frowned at him, trying to seem scary and failing miserably, making his smile grow larger.

She settled down again. “That’s not all, though.”

“What’s not all?” Rhysand looked at her, eyes questioning.

“What you did for me is not all there is.” she explained, and he groaned like he couldn’t believe they were still talking about this. She shoved at his shoulder again—this time more irritated than anything else—and said, “The way you are, with your friends, even with the help around here when you think people aren’t looking.” she smiled. “You knew his name, Rhys. That’s more than I’d expect from a self entitled rich kid.”

“What? Who?”

“José.” she said simply.

Rhysand sighed. Then shrugged. A thunder sounded from outside, and Feyre jumped.

“So?” she said, looking back at him.

“So?” he repeated, looking at her with a gleam in his eyes.

She was about to hit his shoulder lightly again when a tiny explosion followed by a strange slurping noise resonated from far away, and all the lights went out.

 

 

 

Oh, great.

Feyre was having the best first day in school in the story of first days. Seriously, the best. Between getting little to no sleep last night and the boy who kept running into her and the incident and everything that followed after that, she was exhausted.

She just wanted to go to class, do her homework, and get good grades—stay away from people. Because these people usually looked at her like she was filth, like she was nothing. She was not nobility, and she would not know success like any of them could at the toss of golden coins in the right direction.

But when she’d gotten here—when she’d gotten here she’d been so welcome… And she knew she’d wanted peace and quiet. She knew she’d wanted nothing to do with them, and that she hadn’t even wanted to come to this place at all, but hell—in one day these people had managed to startle her into feeling some other than the absolute anguish and anxiousness that she had in weeks with her family at home.

Things—after Tamlin, things hadn’t been normal.

She hadn’t told her parents. No, that had been one secret Feyre had demanded of Nesta, the thing she could not part with. But her sisters had known—delicate Elain, who did not know cruelty like Tamlin’s, could not understand it, and Nesta, who had shaken her head the first day she had gone out with him and knew exactly what mad men were capable of. Her sisters had known, and that made it so much worse because she loved her sisters dearly and she could not stand Elain’s tiptoeing and Nesta’s quiet sorrow.

So she guessed she was just glad for the fresh start. But this—this was not a fresh start. This was something like the Gods’ idea of a joke. And she was not in the mood to be some kind of mockery for the Gods.

First, that had been the confusing layout of the place, which, mixed with the tiredness she was feeling, had gotten her so lost it was a miracle she had gotten to her classes at all. Then there had been the phone call, the memory of Tamlin, the reminder that no matter where she went, no matter how far she ran, he would be there, waiting for her. And then, there had been Rhys. What could she even say about him? Why did he have to find her at all?

She supposed she was glad he did. She guessed. He’d helped her, right?

But it’d complicated things so much more, because now she knew, she knew for sure that he was not the snobby, dangerous kind of guy she’d first thought him to be and—well, then there was the whole other matter of what people would think of her now that she had been caught getting out of a broom closet with a guy she barely knew on her first day. Cutting class, too. Oh, Gods.

You don’t care what these people think, Feyre, she told herself firmly, but she didn’t really know if she believed it or not.

And now, here she was, sitting in her room, alone with him yet again, and all the lights had gone out. She couldn’t catch a break, could she?

Feyre jumped out of her place in Mor’s bed, going to stand by the window. She looked outside. “Shit, I think the whole building’s out.”

“I think Mor has some candles around here.” Rhys said from behind her and she almost jumped again—hadn’t he been sprawled out on the end of the bed just a few seconds ago? He moved again, towards her roommate’s desk and said, “Her and Az are into romantic shit like that,” he made a face, and she rolled her eyes. “Here, help me look.”

“Um—I don’t think—” Feyre started.

“What?” he stopped what he was doing immediately and straightened to look into her eyes from the place he was standing—or tried to, as he couldn’t really see much in the dark.

“I don’t think we should mess with Mor’s stuff, Rhys.” she said, embarrassed. “It might be private.” she wouldn’t want anyone to do it to hers, anyway.

“Oh.” he said, looking at her in utter surprise. “I don’t think she’d mind.”

She shrugged, flushing a bit, wondering if she shouldn’t have said anything. But they were beyond that, weren’t they? After today… After what he’d seen and how he’d taken care of her, they were beyond forced silence. Right?

But Gods, she couldn’t take being in the dark with him anymore. It’d been minutes now, and the lights hadn’t even flickered or given any sign of lighting back up, so she said, “Do you at least know where to look?”

He smiled, though she couldn’t see it in the darkness of the room, and said, “Yeah, I think she has some on her underwear drawer. But I’m not sure.” he turned back to Mor’s desk, blindly searching for something before shouting, “AHA!” and lighting up the flash of his phone. He turned the light towards her and she covered her face, bothered by it, before he turned it away and toward Mor’s closet. “Can you look?”

“In her—in her underwear drawer?” Feyre spluttered. “I don't—”

Rhys laughed. “Oh come on, you can’t be that prim and proper, Archeron.”

She glowered at him.

 

 

 

Feyre had found Mor’s candles—which had been indeed buried within lacy underthings that had made her blush—and had lit and placed them around the room. There was one just between her and Rhys, too, and it illuminated his side and face in splashes of light.

They had been sitting in strained silence when something buzzed in Rhys’ pocket and he took out his phone. “Hey, um—” he turned toward her, face glowing in lines and angles against the candle light. “Mor just texted me.”

She moved to look at the screen of his phone. “What’d she say?”

“They’re all stuck at the cafeteria.” Rhys said, putting his phone back in his pocket. “The lights went out all over the school. Apparently the Head Girl got some candles from the kitchen and they’re waiting for the lights to come back on.” he looked her in the eyes. “So, do you want to meet them there?”

Feyre frowned. She had homework to do, and she didn’t feel like drawing in front of people, especially in a dimly lit room—even if that didn’t exactly disturb her work, which was for a graphic art class. But she didn’t feel like being alone, in the dark, in a place she barely knew. Still, she had to say, “I have homework to do.”

“Really? You’re going to work in the dark?”

She hesitated, then said, “No, it’s a drawing on my—my computer.” she fidgeted, a little uncomfortable. “It’s, um, graphic art.”

“Oh,” Rhysand said as she stood up, heading to her bed where, right beside it, her wheeled platinum bag lay. “I think I’ll stay with you, then. Keep you company.” he flashed her a smile that made her insides turn.

She took an old laptop full of stickers and small detailed painted flowers, and a small drawing tablet out of her bag, and seated on the bed, laying it all in front of her. “Thank you.” she said politely. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be much fun, though. I really need to work on this project.”

“No, it’s fine.” he reassured her, standing up as she opened her laptop and laid, belly down, in front of it, moving the drawing pad so it’d be right beneath her hand. “May I?” he pointed at the brightening screen.

“Um,” she hesitated, but said, “Yeah, sure.” the computer started to hum softly. “It takes a while for it to warm up.”

“It’s a bit like you in that regard then, huh, Feyre, darling?” he smirked at her.

She just stuck out her tongue. 

 

 

 

Feyre was hungry.

She didn’t know what time it was, but the lights were still out, and Mor and her friends were still in the cafeteria with the Head Girl. She’d been painting for a while now, and her computer was almost dying.

Rhys was still seated beside her, watching every move, every swish of her hand against the drawing pad and how it changed the drawing beneath it.

After a long while, she said, “Well, I’m done for today.”

“It's—” he started, his voice soft. “It’s amazing.”

She blushed, closing the computer and straightening, sitting up. “Thank you.” she looked down. “I wouldn’t say it’s amazing, though. I’m not very good at graphic art—painting’s my strong suit.”

“Nonsense.” he waved her off, pushing at her shoulder with his. “Feyre, darling, the way you mix colors together so flawlessly—I’d never be able to do anything like it.”

“Well, that’s because you’re just hopeless at art, darling.”

“Oh, call me that again, would you?” he looked into her eyes, smirking, and she snorted, punching his arm lightly.

Feyre looked at him, really looked, at his smile, the lines of his face and the silver rings of his violet eyes, and felt her heat race. Down, girl, she told herself, and breathed in. The smell of Mor’s incense filled her nose, along with citrus and the sea, and she realized that was his scent—so close to her, so intoxicating.

She needed to clear her head. And get away from him—yes, that was a good idea.

“I’m hungry,” she said, standing up. “Do you think they’re still serving dinner?”

He laughed at that. “Not in the dark, Feyre.” he smiled at her, standing up as well and fishing his school bag from the floor from where it had been thrown near the door. “I have some chips, though. And a coke.” he gave her an irresistible smile—or tried to, as she was looking anywhere but his face. “What do you say? Candlelit dinner?”

She tried not to smile, finally meeting his stare. “Whatever.”

He pulled out two potato chip packages from his bag, along with a partially drank coke and some spearmint gum, spreading them out on her desk—which, unlike Mor’s, was completely clean and had nothing on it. “We even have dessert.”

This time she didn’t fight the smile that blossomed on her face, and said sarcastically, “It’s a feast fit for kings!”

“Hey, don’t mock my chips and coke, you’d be starved if not for them.” he said, hands pressed to his chest in mock hurt.

“Oh, yes, I’m sorry.” Feyre walked up to him, grabbing one of his hands and holding it to her heart. “Oh, Rhysand, saviour of my deep, deep hunger, do forgive me for my insolence.”

“Now, that’s better.” he smiled at her ferociously. “You do know my hand is almost touching your breast, right?”

She dropped his hand immediately, like it was made of hot coal, and blushed deep red. “Gods, you are so exhausting.”

 

 

 

“So, what’s your specialty exactly?” Feyre said after a long silence. They had arranged the desk so it would be between the two beds, and were sitting across from each other. The packages of potato chips were both open and carelessly laid on the desk, along with the coke, which was now almost gone. “I know Mor’s here for photography and Cassian is a musician, but I haven’t got a clue about the rest of you.”

Rhys laughed, munching on some more chips before saying, “Well, to be honest, I didn’t have any specialty to begin with. I had to beg my parents to let me come here when Mor got accepted.” he explained.

“But I thought you had to specialize in something to go here.” she countered, confused.

“Yeah, you do.” he said. “Which is why—well, I’m not really proud of it.” he looked a little embarrassed, so she grabbed his hand as it shot forward to grab more potato chips as if to say go on, “Well, my parents invested a lot of money in the school back in the day. So they called in a favor and I just picked whatever ridiculous specialty I wanted so I could enroll.”

“Oh,” Feyre said. This, this was a lot more like the rich kid she’d expected him to be. Yet the way he talked about it, the way he didn’t flaunt it, it said a lot about who he was. She knew, knew in her gut, that he was not another one of those people who had walked all over her for years and years. Couldn’t be. “What did you pick, though?”

He laughed again, this time a little self-consciously. “Lacrosse.” he took a swig of the coke, and then smiled at her. “I’m pretty good at it, too. Took me a while to learn, though.”

“I bet.” she smiled softly.

“And all the other kids were already pretty good when I got here, so it was quite rough.” he made a face. “I still remember the talking to’s I got every day from Coach Tarquin.”

“Oh, poor baby,” she mocked him.

He stuck his tongue out at her.

Silence fell again, broken only by the crunch of chips against teeth, and she realized she was still holding his hand. She pulled her hand back immediately, and thought she saw his eyes darken a bit against the candlelight, ever sorrowful.

That look in his eyes suddenly made the silence unbearable. It was too much, all too much. She was about to say something, anything, when suddenly—the lights came back on.

She smiled. “I guess we can put out the candles, huh?”

“Yeah.” he said, smiling at her. There was something sad about his smile, though, and she couldn’t, for the life of her, figure out why. He took out his phone, glancing at the screen for a second before saying, “Listen, I think I better go.”

“Oh.” she said, surprised.

“Um, Mor will be back soon and I’m beat,” he explained. “Plus, we don’t want to have to explain why we stayed together in a dark room for three hours, do we, Feyre, darling?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” she smiled and pushed his shoulder toward the door, making him stand up. “I think you’d better go.”

She opened the door for him, and was about to say goodnight when he said, “I don’t know if I am a good person, Feyre.”

She startled. “Huh?”

“You asked me, earlier, why I don’t let people see the good in me. And see that I care.” he said softly. “It’s because when people see good, they expect good. And I don’t want to have to live up to anyone’s expectations.”

“You might have to, though.” she replied. “Because I already see the good in you, Rhysand. And I’m not going anywhere.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a party in the dorms and Feyre needs to clear her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TA-DA! Part IV is finally here! I’m sorry it took so long, guys! it took a lot of effort and actual, real life tears, but it’s done. 4.5k words of Feysand goodness. Nonnies, I hope you’re happy, ‘cause i worked all night on this baby for you guys lol. as always, thanks to the wonderful blaire for proof reading this fic for me. Feedback is really, truly appreciated. Enjoy!

The weeks passed without much incident as fall turned to winter, the warm weather and fallen leaves leaving space for rainy days and chilly nights. There were no more calls from Tamlin, no more closet incidents, no more power outages, no more being alone with her roommate’s cousin. But even though nothing happened, and nothing had ever happened, Feyre found herself followed by whispers and weird looks wherever she went. At classes, meals, even in the halls of the Academy. It was tiring, and frankly, everything she had imagined this experience would be like, though for different reasons.

So, rather than trying to make any friends—though Mor and her friends were a constant in her routine and she guessed she could call them such—, she focused on classes and her art, which was improving more and more every day. She was still behind on coursework, her classmates were so talented and hard working she thought she would never quite catch up to them, but she tried. Her sketching teacher, Alis, was by far her favorite, and she constantly gave her tips and complimented her work in ways that only a fellow artist would know how. It made her very, very happy.

Now, as she walked to her chemistry class, she made her steps quick and easy, ignoring the look a blonde girl gave her as she leaned in to whisper something to another girl, probably about how she had “seduced Rhysand Stella” on her very first day of school. She didn’t mind, she told herself, but a pit opened at her stomach, readying to swallow her whole.

She arrived at classroom 305, where Rhysand was carelessly leaning against the doorframe, as if waiting for someone. “Hello, Feyre, darling.”

Feyre rolled her eyes. Darling. She had somewhat grown used to the nickname the past few weeks, but it still made her stomach flutter every time he said it for some unknown reason. She pushed past him and sat down at the back of the classroom—not because she was a bad student or wasn’t planning on paying attention, in fact, Feyre was determined to pass with flying colors and keep her scholarship. No, she wanted to sit there so she would be unnoticed and wouldn’t be bothered by anyone.

Rhysand, as always, sat by her side, putting his bag on the back of his chair and turning to the front of the classroom, where the teacher was already setting up for the class.

As the teacher started talking about chemical reactions, Feyre took out her notebook and different color pens and started scribbling down everything she thought was important, as she always did. She had a system for everything, drew little colored balloons for special information, underlined in red things that would be in exams and even added little drawings to illustrate her points. All in all, her notebook was a work of art in itself. She was finishing a little balloon when a little note was dropped on top of her notebook.

Feyre, darling, you look absolutely delicious when you’re all focused like that.

She frowned, looking around. Rhysand was smirking widely at her. Of course.

His handwriting was loopy and elegant, something out of a fairy tale, a bit like him in that way. She shook her head. Who was he to say that to her? Feyre scribbled something down on the small piece of paper, folding it carefully before tossing it at Rhysand’s head, wishing it were heavier so it would hurt him a bit.

What do you want?

He chuckled quietly—a low, deep grumble of his chest—and wrote something else on another piece of paper before ripping it to make it smaller and reaching to put it on Feyre’s desk.

Can’t a friend compliment another friend?

Feyre sighed as she read. She wasn’t going to catch a break, was she? She looked around again, making sure no one saw—especially not her teacher, considering she did not feel like getting kicked out of class—as she wrote down her answer, a growl stuck on her lips.

I’m trying to pay attention, Rhysand. Go bother someone else.

She did not see, and certainly did not care as he pouted.

Feyre thought she had finally gotten rid of him when he didn’t pass her any notes for a long while. She went back to her notebook, writing down notes and making little drawings that she certainly would appreciate later, when she was studying for a test she was not quite ready for—she knew she wasn’t very good at chemistry, though she was curious enough about it to take the class. But then another small note made its way onto her desk, interrupting her scribbles.

Oh, don’t ignore me, Feyre, darling. If you do you might regret it later…

What in the hell was he talking about?

All right, I’ll bite. What do you mean?

Rhysand was smiling, though he looked straight ahead now, pretending to pay attention even as he read her response. He wrote something else down, crumbling the note and putting it atop her desk once again.

One of my friends is throwing an unauthorized party at the dorms tonight. Want to come?

Oh. Oh.

A party? But on a school night? She had done so much to stay in line, so much to keep her head down and do well in class and this was—this was not going to help her in that regard at all. But maybe she needed to unwind a little. Maybe it would be okay for her to have a little bit of fun once in a while.

Really? There’s class tomorrow.

Rhysand smirked at her as he read the note, shaking his head.

Come on, Feyre, darling, live a little. A little party never killed anybody.

 

 

Feyre finished setting up her hair into a french plait, checking herself in the mirror Mor had brought with her—along with some of the other furniture of the room—at the beginning of term. The female bathrooms were far from their room, at the end of the dorm halls, and it seemed foolish to make the trip every time she wanted to see if her eyeliner was crooked.

She had put on a thin layer of mascara and red lipstick that was shockingly bright against her pale skin and the freckles that peppered her face and shoulders.

A knock came from the door. “Feyre?”

“Come in,” Feyre called as she turned to her and Mor’s closet, looking for something to wear to the party. Most of her clothes were simple and, she was sure, cheaper than anything the kids from this school had in their closets, but she found the perfect dress on one of the hangers, just staring at her.

“Hey, Feyre,” Amren said as she came in. “Are you almost ready?”

Feyre felt a little embarrassed changing in front of Amren, who’s body was sculpted and lean, but she was somewhat used to it by now—as Mor, easily the most beautiful girl in the school was her roommate and she had to change in front of her all the time. She pulled her uniform off the top of her head and reached for the dress, a long, silky, navy blue beauty.

“Almost,” she said as she put on the dress. She turned to her desk, searching for her tiny ruby earrings—the only real jewelry she owned. “Where is everyone?”

Amren made herself comfortable at Mor’s mattress, sitting down with her feet hanging loosely from the bed, moving back and forth. “Oh, Mor’s with Azriel. They should be here soon,” she said, though the faintly dreary look on her face made it quite clear why they were late and she was not with them. “The last time I saw Cassian he’d gone to grab something to eat.”

Of course.

“And Rhysand?” she asked, feigning disinterest, though, by the look on Amren’s face, she wasn’t fooling anybody, least of all herself.

“He’s already there.” Amren studied her nails, bored like only the old or the wise could be. She looked at Feyre for a moment, eyes narrowed, before returning her gaze to her nails and sighing. “He’s helping Yeda with the party.”

“Yeda?” Feyre cleared her throat as she found the earrings she’d been looking for.

“Yeah, that’s the girl who’s throwing the party.” Amren answered, same bored tone in her voice. “Rhys has known her ever since he came to school freshman year. They’ve been friends ever since.”

She fought the wave of—what was that? Jealousy?—that flowed through her and looked at her reflection again.

“Okay,” she finished putting on her earrings and turned to Amren, hands on her hips. “What do you think?”

Amren cocked her head, her hair—currently in braided pigtails—bobbing with the movement. She stood up, walking up to Feyre, studying her face. “I love the dress. Very chic.” she smiled, a kindness in her grey eyes Feyre didn’t see very often. “But, the hair is missing something—”

Amren reached to release a few strands of hair from the front of her head, placing them on either side of her face. “There.” she smiled wider. “Perfect.”

Feyre examined herself in the mirror. Indeed, the look was now complete. She smiled, “Thanks, Amren.”

Amren nodded at her.

The door suddenly opened, and Mor burst in with Azriel and Cassian in tow. She looked beautiful in a faded burnt gold top and high waisted velvety pants, hair down and braided in places, with a flower crown on top. It was like a real life fairy.

“Hey, Fey,” Mor said, grinning like a cheshire cat, and Feyre scrunched up her nose at the nickname. “Amren.”

“You all ready to go?” Cassian asked.

“Yes!” Feyre said.

They headed out, walking through the confusing stone halls and down stairwells, until they stood outside door number 13. Low light and the sound of people talking flowed out of the room, and Cassian knocked five times, spaced out differently each time, apparently some kind of secret knock so people would know if it were a guest or a teacher roaming the halls.

The party was in full swing when they entered, low music flowed from the stereo on the corner—so the teachers and prefects roaming the halls wouldn’t hear it from far away and come here—and it was all lit up by only candles placed around room. It was a three-person bedroom, larger then Feyre’s own, but even then it felt crowded with all the people gathered around. There were the standard three beds and desks, but the students living there must’ve been loaded, because there were added furniture all around the room. A mirror and dresser, a red loveseat, and even a small TV and stereo.

There was a big cooler by one of the beds filled with beers and wine and even a couple bottles of vodka. Everyone had brought something to contribute to the party, be it only two cans of beers or a whole six pack—bought on some weekend trip to the neighboring towns of the Academy—, but the important thing was to help out. Their group—or well, Mor, really—had brought a bottle of Chardonnay, and Cassian had a little flask of bourbon he was currently sharing with a tall, blonde girl.

Feyre got herself a beer—not really in the mood for hard liquor—, and sat down on the loveseat next to Mor. They observed as Cassian flirted with said blonde girl, giggling and commenting on his moves.

Mor laughed again. “Oh, Gods,” she said. “Did he just make the snore and side hug move?” she snorted and Feyre just shook her head. “She’s not going to fall for that, is she?”

Cassian continued talking about whatever it was he was talking about with the girl, but she leaned into to him, settling into his arms. “And she’s in the web,” Feyre said.

“Oh, gross.” Mor shivered lightly, disbelieving what she was seeing.

But as she started saying something else, Feyre didn’t listen, or look, or pay attention. She was looking at something else, noticing something else, feeling something else entirely. Rhysand was talking to Yeda, the girl who threw this party, leaning in to exchange whispered words and soft touches. His hands fell from her shoulder to her elbow in a smooth line. She felt her stomach drop.

“They’re just friends, you know,” Mor said kindly, a little smile playing on her lips.

“What?” Feyre asked, startled and suddenly feeling guilty for some reason, as if she’d been caught spying. She cleared her throat and sipped her beer, looking anywhere but Mor’s eyes, blushing.

“Rhys and Yeda.” Mor answered, putting a hand on hers to comfort her somehow. She looked over at them and Feyre followed her gaze. Rhys was still touching the girl, this time grasping her wrist as she laughed at something he said. It opened a pit in her stomach she could not understand, and she looked away again. “They’re just friends. They’ve been friends for a long time, and I don’t think they’ll ever be more than that. Rhys thinks of her as more of a—sister.”

“Oh,” was all Feyre said and silence fell.

“Well, I’m going to grab another glass of wine, do you want anything?” Mor asked, standing up.

“No, I’m okay.” she said, holding up her still half full can of beer before taking another sip. She looked at the center of the room, where people were dancing and talking and smiling at each other, and felt suddenly a little sad. She was here, at a party, with a bunch of people her age and without supervision, and yet she could not enjoy herself for some reason.

It was only when she saw Rhysand standing in front of her that she got out of her reverie.

“Hello there, Feyre, darling,” he said, that same smirk he always seemed to have plastered on his face. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Liar,” he laughed, sitting down next to her. He put an arm on the back of the loveseat, right behind her shoulders, and she felt a rush go through her. “What you need to do is just relax a little.” He smiled at her, kindly, and squeezed her shoulder lightly. “Let your hair down.”

Feyre sighed. “I guess.” she said as Mor came back, drink in hand, nodding her hello to her cousin.

“I have an idea, Feyre, darling.” Rhysand smile ferociously. “What about we play a little game?”

And before she could shut him down, Mor said, “I love that idea.”

 

 

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Feyre said as she downed yet another shot.

They’d been sitting in a circle on the floor of Yeda’s room for a while now, playing a game called Most Likely—though it was Mor’s version of the game. The rules were simple: when it was your turn, you had to say a phrase starting with the words most likely to and one activity—such as most likely to become a millionaire—and then everyone had to point to the person they thought the phrase applied to the most. The person who had the most fingers pointed at them drank, and if there was a tie, both drank.

“Okay,” Yeda said. She was sitting cross-legged between the blonde girl Cassian had been flirting with earlier and Rhys, head cocked as she tried to think of something to say now that it was her turn in the game. Feyre looked at her. She was truly beautiful, brown-skinned, black-eyed, with long legs and curly black hair. She smirked as she finally said, “Most likely to throw up before the night is over.”

People pointed at different people this time—it was the most indecisive round—, but a redheaded girl beside Cassian got three fingers, and drank.

“Okay, my turn.” Rhysand said, closing the bottle and saying, “Most likely to—” and smirked at Mor, “—get married before college.”

And of course, of course, everyone pointed at either Mor or Azriel, all but two people. So, as always in the event of a tie, both of them drank, making different, but equally horrified faces at the taste of raw vodka. Mor stuck out her tongue at Rhysand then, and kissed her boyfriend softly, saying, “I love you, babe.”

Silence fell for a short moment before Rhys said, “Feyre?” and she realized it was time for her to say something. She tried to think of something, anything, but she was horrible at this game. Everything she thought of was either too boring, too tame or just plain weird. She thought for a long minute before she got an idea. Feyre looked at Rhys, a gleam of mischief in her eyes as she said, “Most likely to have sex in Dean Falsum’s office.”

Rhysand and Mor burst out laughing as most fingers pointed to him and he reached for the bottle of vodka, taking off the cap and drinking a long gulp, making no recognizable face at the bitter taste of it.

“Great one, Feyre!” Cassian said, winking at her. She smiled at him.

“Okay, babe,” Az said, linking his palm with Mor’s, rubbing his thumb in circles on top of her hand. They were sitting closely together, like always, like they were tied to the hip. “Your turn.”

“Mmm,” Mor cocked her head, trying to think of something better than Feyre’s phrase, trying to think of a way to beat her, since it was her game, her turf, after all. But she couldn’t think of anything. Until— “Most likely to have a secret crush on my cousin.”

All fingers immediately pointed to Feyre, including Rhysand, who was smirking like a cheshire cat, like he knew exactly what she was thinking—which was absurd, because she didn’t even know what she was thinking, or feeling. She blushed deep red, reaching for the bottle of vodka and gulping down a shot.

She stayed for a few more phrases, but her heart wasn’t really in the game anymore. So she looked outside. It had stopped raining, but small raindrops that reflected in the candlelight like little Christmas lights beautifully peppered the glass. The room felt very crowded suddenly, too small and too full. She needed to take a walk, clear her head, feel the grass under her feet.

“I think I’m going to get some fresh air,” Feyre said as another round finished, and smiled as everyone echoed “no's” and “ah's”.

“It looks like it’s going to rain soon,” Mor said, but she shrugged, looking out the window again. “You’re okay, though, right?” her roommate asked quietly, leaning into her, hand on her shoulder.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” she smiled again, standing up and heading to the door. “I’ll leave the door open for you when I get to the room, okay?”

 

 

Feyre was on halfway down the hall when she realized someone had followed her.

“You know, I left because I wanted to be alone,” she said to Rhysand as he caught up to her, his steps slow and spaced out, hands in the pockets of his fancy Calvin Klein jeans. He looked at her, searching her face for a moment, looking for something she didn’t know or understand, but didn’t say anything for a while.

Then— “Oh, Feyre, darling, but my company is so much better.” And that was so much more like the old him that she almost forgot the look on his face as he’d been staring at her just moments before—but not quite.

“Prick,” she joked, shoving at his shoulder.

After that, they walked in silence through the confusing halls of the Academy, up the stairwells they had gone down before, until they reached the archway atop the heavy, large wooden doors that lead outside. They creaked as they pushed them open and went outside, careful not to bang them shut, and took in the sight of the chilly night. It had stopped raining, but there were raindrops on the grass and the trees dropped retained water every once in a while. The moon was high in the sky, full and beautiful, accompanied by stars freckled across darkness.

Before they started walking, Feyre took off her shoes, placing them against the wall beside the doors of the Academy, and stepped forward, feeling the wet grass against the soles of her feet. “Mmm,” she murmured, closing her eyes. A soft gust of cold air breezed through them and she shivered a little.

“Here,” Rhysand said, taking off his expansive black coat and placing it on her shoulders.

“No,” she insisted, ready to shrug it off and give it back to him. “You’ll be cold.”

“I’m okay, Feyre.” he smiled at her, and Gods, if it didn’t make her a little weak in the knees. She hadn’t seen this side of him before, this gentleman side, this romantic side. Sure, he’d been nice to her that day in the closet and the night of the power outage, but this—this was a whole new side of him, and she was not sure she was comfortable with it. “Really. You seem like you need it more than I do.”

“Well, thank you,” she said politely, retracting herself a little bit. She noticed how close they were standing and stepped away. “Come on!” she pointed at the little fake forest at the Academy grounds with her head and started walking.

Comfortable silence surrounded them again as they walked, the only noises being their footsteps—Feyre’s near silent and Rhysand’s something like squish squish squish—and the sound of their breathing.

They reached a little clearing in the middle of the woods, the trees surrounding them tall and thick and old. Feyre was about to keep going when Rhys put a hand on her shoulder to stop her, saying, “Hey, can I ask you something?”

She hesitated. There was so much she still kept secret, so much she didn’t want to talk about and just couldn’t. But they’d come so far since that first day at school, when she’d thought he was just another jerk and didn’t care about anything or anyone, and they’d connected somehow—granted they still had much growing to do, but they’d come so far. So she said, “Sure.”

He leaned into a tree, smiling at her before saying, “Why do you detach yourself from people so much?”

“What?” she was surprised by his question, surprised and uncomfortable, and not really ready for whatever she were to say.

“Why do you detach yourself so much?” he said again, touching her elbow softly. “I mean, you never talk to anybody but us, and today—today at the party you didn’t look like you were having any fun at all, you just looked so—out of place, like you were spacing out.”

Feyre thought about it for a second. She could lie—Gods, it’d be so easy to lie and be done with it. But it wouldn’t be fair to him, not after he’d been so honest to her with everything she’d ever asked and been so careful and gentle with his question. Finally, she said, “I don’t know, really, Rhys,” she turned away taking a few steps away. He followed her, and, as she turned around, he was so close to her she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. “I guess I’m just afraid to get hurt.” and as she said it, she realized it was true, so very true and so very hurtful in itself.

He nodded. “You can’t let it stop you from living though, Feyre.” he said. “Don’t let the fear of getting hurt keep you from feeling anything at all.”

And he had such sadness in his eyes suddenly that she wanted to talk about something else, anything else, so she blurted out, “Yeda is really cute, huh?”

“What?” Rhysand looked at her weirdly.

“I saw you talking to her,” she cringed at the bitterness in her voice. “You seemed very—friendly.”

He burst out laughing. “Feyre, darling, are you—are you jealous?”

She flushed deep red, pushing at his shoulder. “Prick,” she said, but he just laughed again. Feyre stepped back from him, her back coming flush against the tree trunk and Rhysand followed her again, putting one hand on either side of her head against the tree, and came close to her, closer then he was before.

“You don’t have to be jealous, Feyre.” he said, face a hair’s breadth away from hers, mouth so close. He leaned in to whisper in her ear, “I only have eyes for you,” before he pressed a kiss to the point beneath her ear. She shivered as he came ever closer, body flushed against hers, and pressed a line of kisses down her neck. “Only you.”

“Rhys—” Feyre moaned and gripped his hair, pulling at it for him to pull him away from her neck and pressed her lips to his in a passionate kiss.

The kiss was heated, their lips parting and tongues meeting in a mixture of sensations like nothing Feyre had ever felt before. She moaned again as he picked her up, putting her against the tree trunk firmly and she wrapped her legs around his waist without breaking their kisses, without letting go of each other for a single moment.

When they finally came up for air, Rhysand didn’t stop kissing her—didn’t want to stop tasting her—so he kissed her chin, her cheeks, both eyelids, her forehead, before nibbling at her earlobe—causing another moan on Feyre’s part—and trailing a line of kisses down her throat and neck, to the point where it met her shoulder. He licked at her collarbone, sucking at it until he left a mark—marking her as his—and continued kissing down to the top of her breasts, until the point where they were covered by her dress.

“Rhys—” she said again, this time more insistent as she pulled at his hair again, wanting to kiss him, wanting to taste him, wanting to lose herself in him. He obliged.

Their second kiss was less hurried, like the calm that settled after a storm, but they were still so lost in each other that it took a moment for either of them to notice that it had started to rain again.

Feyre laughed as they broke the kiss. They were getting soaked, but she found that she didn’t mind so much. She was happy, so Gods-damned happy.

Until—

Gods, what was she doing? She was kissing Rhysand. Careless, ladies-man, bad boy extraordinaire, Rhysand. And he was Mor’s cousin. Sure she always kid around about them getting together, but what if she found out about this? And what if it ended badly? There would be no choice to make, Mor would take her cousin’s side. And so would the others. She wasn’t ready to lose the only friends she had made since coming here. What in the hell was she doing?

She unwrapped her legs from around his waist—too quickly, and at the same time, causing her to fall on her ass. Great.

“Feyre, darling, are you okay?” Rhysand asked, worried, hand out to help her get up.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, and he stepped back, startled. Her eyes softened, and she said, “I’m sorry.”She stood up, cleaning the wet stains from her ass, and turned away from him, afraid to look him in the eye as she said the rest. Afraid she wouldn’t be able to. “I’m sorry about everything.” She started walking away. “We can’t be together, Rhys. I’m really, really sorry.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, the story of Morrigan Stella, and some hand holding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The very much requested part V is finally here! I’m truly sorry for how long it took to write this, but for personal reasons i had to take some time off. I just had to have Rhys showing Feyre music as a nod to ACOTAR, and for everyone wondering, the song is Let Me In by Marika Hackman and the lines “Coughing up a love that tastes like spring/Green and starved of oxygen” are perfect for the end of her relationship with tamlin. I hope you enjoy! Feedback is always appreciated!

Feyre woke up that morning to a headache and blurry memories of what had to be the worst decision making of all time. She shifted in bed, not ready to wake up, and turned off the alarm clock on the nightstand of her and Mor’s beds. Flashes of drinking and starry night and hot, heavy kissing shot through her head as she closed her eyes and she groaned, realizing she might as well stand up, because doing nothing was not going to improve her mood.

She sighed and went to her closet, digging up cargo pants, a halter-top and a fluffy blue sweater that would cover the mark Rhysand had left on her collarbone. She changed into them quickly, hissing as the cold morning air hit her skin, and went to the mirror to check her hair. Oh, Gods, she was a mess. Her mascara was everywhere, and her hair was sticking out randomly in places like she was Harry Potter or something.

Feyre got a comb from her roommate’s desk, combing her hair into submission, and braiding two strands at the front until the end of them, before grabbing a hair tie and tying them together at the back of her head. She cleaned her face with a Kleenex wipe and reapplied a soft coat of mascara before going over to Mor’s bed and gently shaking her awake.

She gathered her things for the day as her roommate got ready, and went over her notes for chemistry, as she was getting more and more confused as time went by and classes got more difficult. But her mind was on Mor, on her roommate’s own mind, on what she was thinking. Did she know what had happened last night? Had Rhys told her? What if she was mad? She didn’t seem mad.

Mor turned to her. “What?” she asked, looking down at herself, then back at Feyre. “Do I have something on my teeth?”

Feyre laughed nervously. She didn’t know. Couldn’t know. “Oh, nothing. Um, no.”

She waited as Mor applied her makeup, the perfect wings of her eyeliner, the soft touches of her blush, the barely-there nude lipstick. And then they were gone, off to breakfast and to where Rhysand would be—

Oh, Gods, she wasn’t ready to face him, wasn’t ready to look him in the eyes and talk to him and act like it all hadn’t happened when it so clearly had and the kisses and the rain and his hands—his Gods-damned hands—kept playing tricks on the back of her mind like it was happening over and over and over again. How would she even stand there and pretend that it was all—all right?

She had minutes to figure it out. Seconds. Because the cafeteria loomed closer and closer as she stepped towards it with Mor by her side and she couldn't—wouldn't—stop, or her roommate would know something was amiss.

As they reached their destination, it seemed like no time at all had passed by. It was way too soon, way too early for her to see him, hear him, talk to him. But there was no avoiding it now. She went right over to the line to get her food, hoping to buy some time, hoping to be alone with her thoughts for a while.

Wrong fucking move.

He approached her as soon as he saw she was alone. Mor had gone to meet Azriel where he was seated in their usual table by the windows, the rest of the crew sitting by his side. Rhysand was wearing the school uniform, of course, but somehow, he made it more elegant, more beautiful in his sculpted body. As he approached, she flinched back, not ready for this, not ever ready for what would come of this. His smile faltered for a moment, but did not fade.

“Good morning, Feyre, darling,” he said in his usual manner, shifting to stand by her side as they moved down the line.

Feyre sighed, looking down at her feet. Tired. So, so tired somehow, despite having just woken up. She didn’t want to look at him, didn’t want to get lost in his eyes like she seemed to do so often because it lead to things so complicated, things she could not deal with, things she was not ready for. “Please, Rhys, not—not today.”

His smile faltered once again. “I’m only saying hello.”

“I know.” She sighed once more and looked to the back of the head of the student in front of her—a redheaded male with freckled shoulders. “But I also know that you mean more by it.”

“Feyre—” he started, and stopped, because she was right, and because he didn’t know if he could take any more of this himself. “I just know that we could be so good together.” he finally said, willing her to look at him, willing her to listen, and understand, that he meant it, that he truly cared, that he was as invested in this as he could be.

Feyre finally looked at him, at his supplicanting eyes, at his beautiful face, at his expressive eyebrows—which were raised in question. “I know.” she found herself saying. “I know.” and her heart broke a little in that moment, because of all that could be and all that would not. “But I just can’t.”

 

 

After a very awkward breakfast, the day passed without much incident. Feyre went to her classes and did her work and tried her best not to think of violet eyes that bore holes into hers and tan skin against her own and lips across her collarbone. Tried, and failed. She almost walked into a wall at one time, and had several people scream at her to get out of the way as she walked right into them on more occasions than she’d like to admit.

Still, she managed not to run into the man that those lips and eyes and kisses and skin belonged to, until she realized, and winced as she did so, that she had chemistry today. And she could not cut class just to avoid a boy. Not when she was already behind on the subject.

As she got to classroom 305, Rhysand was leaning into the wall beside the door, waiting for her as usual, despite whatever she had told him this morning, despite the silence they had shared this morning at breakfast. And that’s when she decided. She wasn’t ready to lose him. Feyre wasn’t ready for a relationship, wasn’t ready for the consequences of it, but she wasn’t ready to lose him either. He’d been a constant in her life since she’d come here, and she wasn’t ready to let that go.

“Hey,” she said, turning to lean into the wall beside him.

“Hey,” he drawled out.

“Rhys, I know we have to go in in a bit, but,” she started, not really knowing how to this, how to tell him she cared, how to reach out. She shifted uncomfortably, exchanging the weight of her from one leg to the other, and turned completely to him, leaning her shoulder to the wall. “I just want—” Gods, why did this have to be so damned difficult?

“What?” he smiled, and something in her gave, twisted and turned and screamed at her to run, to hide, to never look back.

“Can we be—friends?” she tried. It was simple, the plain truth of what she wanted from him, even if she was lying to herself.

“Friends?” he repeated.

“Yes.” she said. “Friends.” she looked away before continuing. “I know that you want more from me and I know that we might have been something more if I—but I—”

“Breathe, Feyre, darling,” Rhysand said, laughing a bit, putting a hand on her shoulder. “So, friends, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I can dig that.” he trailed his hand down her arm and grabbed her own, gesturing to the open door of the classroom, where more and more students were beginning to pile up. “After you.”

She entered the classroom and settled into her usual seat, casting a half smile at him as he sat down by her side. The professor entered soon after and before long Feyre was deep into her note writing, equipped with all her colored pens and drawings. She was shaken out of her reverie by hand poking at her side.

Feyre looked at Rhysand, frown of disapproval in place. He just smirked and gave her the note he was holding in his hand. Great. What now?

You look kind of flushed wearing that sweater, Archeron. Any reason you’re wearing it inside?

Damn bastard. He knew damn well why she was wearing a sweater, and why she couldn’t take it off. She wanted to rip that smirk right off his face, wanted to swear at him, wanted to show him just what pissing off an Archeron could do to you, but she couldn’t, not in the middle of class. So instead, she scribbled down her answer, swiping it to his desk angrily.

I can’t. Some brute thought I was territory to be marked, like a dog on a fire hidrant.

Rhysand snorted by her side, but seemed unfazed by the joke, at the direct dig at his ego. He just picked up his pen and scribbled something else down, before folding it and sliding it over to her.

Was my kissing really that bad? Because, honestly, you could help me practice, anytime.

Her heart broke a little at the honesty of the first half of his message. But then she saw the rest and rolled her eyes, sighing. There was no winning with him, was there? She knew it was just a joke, just something to pass the time in a class that was probably way too easy or expendable for him, but it still made her so, so sad. She took a long time to write her reply, and when she did, she thought she might never give it to him if she thought too much about it, so she just threw it at him the first chance she got.

FRIENDS, Rhys. And no, it wasn’t. You know that’s not the problem.

Beside her, Rhysand sighed. And wrote something down.

What is it, then?

Then it was her turn to sigh, because this wasn’t the time to talk about this, because she wasn’t ready to, because she would never be. She decided to change the sebject.

Why didn’t you tell Mor about us?

Rhysand raised his eyebrows at her, questioning look on his face. He searched her face for a long while before turning back to the note. Then he got a new paper to write on, ripping it so it would be note-sized and wrote something down before giving it back to her.

You didn’t answer my question. And what, did you want me to?

Feyre sighed once again. Of course he wouldn’t let it go.

I’m just—I’m not ready, Rhys. Let’s leave it at that, okay? And no, I don’t want anyone to know.

 

 

The next morning, for the first time since she came to Prythian Academy, Feyre was woken up by her roommate. “Wakey, wakey, Feyre, dear!” Mor said as she shook her awake. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Okay,” she started, eyes still glazed over from her star filled dreams. “Who are you and what have you done with my morning-hating roommate?”

Morrigan just laughed, waving her off. “Don’t you remember what today is?” she said excitingly.

“Um—” Feyre began.

“Today everyone’s schedule is clear so we get to go to Hiems!”

Oh, right. She remembered now. They’d been talking about this for weeks, about going to the neighboring town, Hiems, together and buying prohibited merchandise and alcohol and going to the cozy bar they loved—a place called High Fae. Feyre couldn’t say she was as excited about it as Mor apparently was, but it seemed fun, at least. She was hoping there was a movie theater where she could watch a crappy horror film or a even crappier comedy, as she hadn’t watched anything in so long. But besides that, she had no expectations.

“Oh, right.” she said, finally, sitting up in bed.

“You, missy,” Mor said, accentuating each word and pointing a finger at Feyre. “Should be a lot more excited than that.”

Feyre smiled at her roommate, standing up and going to their shared closet to dig up some clothes for the trip. “What should I wear?” she asked, not sure what the occasion called for.

“Oh, I’m so glad you asked.” Mor loved playing dress up with her, as Feyre had learned the first few weeks at the Academy. She let her borrow any of all her expensive, chic clothes and loved pairing them up with Feyre’s own. Her roommate fished a simple black jumpsuit with short sleeves and a strip that cinched to accentuate the waist, and said, “Here. This is perfect for you.”

“N—no.” Feyre said, eyeing the V-neck, so low it was practically on the bellybutton, and made her blush just thinking about wearing it. “Mor, I can’t wear that.”

“Sure you can,” her roommate reassured her.

Fifteen minutes—and a lot of convincing—later, Feyre found herself in the jumpsuit, face adorned in light makeup and hair done in waterfall braids and curls. Morrigan had started to get ready herself, changing into jeans and a shimmery silver halter top, and doing her own makeup. Her hair, as usually, was already perfect, as if even sleep couldn’t mess it up in the slightest.

A few moments later, they headed to breakfast, where they would meet the others, eat and then head out. They had the whole day and until ten o'clock to get back. It was more than enough time for her to get acquainted with Hiems. She just didn’t know if she was going to be able to enjoy it, with the ever present man with the violet eyes by her side the whole time.

 

 

When they got there, the sun was already high up in the air, though it was hard to see it through the clouds that coated the sky. The small town of Hiems was adorably secluded and incredibly cute. There were squares and trees everywhere and street artists could be found at each corner street, and every house and store and even bars felt very welcoming.

Their first stop was the Dino’s Music Shop, where musical instruments occupied the walls, and stacks upon stacks upon stacks of vinyls filled the stands at the middle of the store, and soft songs played in the background.

Cassian’s eyes shone as they wandered through the store, as they always did—or so Mor told her. Dino, the owner, came to greet them and offered to show Cass the newest arrival in the guitar department, and off he went eargerly.

Feyre moved to the stacks of Vinyl, wondering if maybe she could get something for Elain, something that would remind her of her sweet sister. Of even fiery Nesta, something as out there as she was. She started to look through the piles of of albums—Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Joss Stone—when she felt a breath over her shoulder. She startled.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Feyre, darling.” Rhysand said, not sounding very sorry at all. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” she lied, if only because she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Mhmm.” he hummed. “What’re you looking for?” he moved to stand beside her, a hand on her back, the other on the albums she was looking at, and hummed again—a deep, low sound of that rich voice.

“Oh, nothing.” Feyre said, trying not to think about his hands—his Gods-damned hands—and the smell of him, the citrus and the sea, coming from all around her, getting into her head and making her dizzy. Trying not to think about where all of him had been before, where he’d put his hands, his lips, his body. Trying not to melt into him. Because they were friends now. Friends. And that’s what she wanted, wasn’t it?

“Well, have you heard this chick?” he pulled a Vinyl out of the M section, fingers working the albums quickly, as if he knew exactly where to look for it. “She’s amazing. Weird, but good.”

“Marika Hackman?” Feyre asked, puzzled. “I’ve never heard of her before.”

“I don’t think she’s very well known.” he said, moving again and gesturing her to follow him. There was another room, smaller and full of posters of bands and events, with Vinyl players stacked against the walls and a large desk at the middle of the room. Rhys grabbed one of the headphones thrown across the desk and connect it to one of the players, carefully taking the Vinyl out of its case and placing it on the player. “Here, listen to this.” he put the headphone on her head, and pressed play.

At first, it was just a guitar, just the beautiful sound of fingers against strings, but then—then a soft, gentle voice started singing. Singing about love, and loneliness, and sorrow, and it made her eyes sting and her heart ache.

“So,” Rhys asked as the song finished, “Do you like it?”

“I—” she tried to find words, tried to find a way to tell him what a gift he had just given her, tried to thank him, but failed. So she just said, “Yes.”

“Good.”

 

 

Feyre bought the album with the only money she’d brought, so as they went to the High Fae bar, she didn’t order anything. The place was as home-y as was expected from what she’d seen of the rest of the rest of the town. Plush booths and couches were scattered around the place, and wooden tables surrounded them, giving a classic feel to it. There were simple painting in the walls, and a band playing in the background, along with two bartenders roaming the wooden bar.

“I still can’t believe the price on that guitar, man.” Cassian was saying, a sorrowful look on his eyes. He’d been crying about it the whole way here, and had had to be dragged out of Dino’s before that, one of his hands still out stretched towards the instrument. The owner of the place had been thoroughly understanding and had promised to keep him posted if there was any lowering of the price of the guitar or anything like that, pretending he didn’t hear when Cassian offered him a kidney in exchange for the instrument.

“Oh, stop yammering, you big baby,” said Amren with a roll of her silver eyes, but she had a fond smile on her face, like she wished she could solve his problems for him.

Cassian just stuck his tongue out at her.

“Well, anyway, cousin, dear,” Rhysand said, putting an arm around his cousin from where they sat in the red, plush booth tucked in a cozy corner of the bar. She returned the feline smile he was giving her, and raised her glass of Sangria before taking a sip. “Speaking of wanting things,” he started, squeezing her shoulder. “What do you want for your birthday?”

Feyre raised one perfectly groomed brow at her roommate. Her birthday was coming up? Why was this the first time she was hearing about it?

“Oh, you know,” Mor said, brushing her hair back from her shoulder in a carefree way, “Fame. Money,” she smiled ferociously. “Never to see my family again.”

“Ouch!” Rhysand said, hand grasping his chest in mock offence. “I’m thoroughly hurt by that.”

“You know what I mean.” Mor rolled her eyes, punching his shoulder lightly.

Feyre suddenly felt her cellphone buzz in her pocket, but didn’t know if she should look at it while they were all sitting here, talking and joking and laughing with each other. She let it go to voicemail, sure it would be Elain, or Nesta, or even her father asking about school. She wanted to hear this, wanted to know why her roommate never talked about her family, wanted to relate to it somehow. Because even if she had her sisters and loved them with all her heart, her own relationship with her parents was so toxic it could kill a man. And she didn’t know this side of Morrigan, this side that had problems, and hated, and was a bit imperfect.

“I do.” Rhys was more somber now, more serious. But he had a small smile in his face, a smile that promised he would always be there for her, and Feyre almost melted at the sight of it. At the sight of a love so unconditional and so pure it couldn’t be broken by time or space or anything else.

Feyre’s cell buzzed again. And again. The conversation flowed and she tried to ignore it, but it kept on buzzing and buzzing, so she finally stood up, making the group look up at her—Rhysand’s eyes like melted butter as he held her glaze—in question. “I’ll be right back.” she said, heading to the bathroom.

She found the bathroom behind an old jukebox at one forgotten corner of the bar. It was simple and clean, with high red stalls, tree sinks, a small grey loveseat and flowers everywhere. Feyre got her cellphone out of her pocket right as it buzzed again—

And almost fell to the floor as she saw Tamlin’s name on the screen.

 

 

 

“H—hello?” she tried, hating herself, for not being strong enough to ignore him, for the break in her voice as she spoke, for picking up at all.

“Feyre.” came that sultry voice, the voice she had gone so long wishing she could forget, wishing she could get over, wishing she had never heard. “Feyre, where are you?”

“Tamlin—”

“Where are you?” it was more an order than it was a question, and she felt herself go pale, felt her hands start to tremble, felt the panic she was so used—so, so damn used to—come over her. “Tell me.”

“I—” her voice broke again. She didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to explain to him that she wasn’t his anymore, that she hadn’t truly ever been. Feyre had always felt so weak beside the force of him, so small. And she wasn’t. She was strong, she was her own woman, she shouldn’t be afraid of him. Yet she was, she was so, so scared and so sad. Because she had loved him at some point. And even if they weren’t right for each other anymore, even if he’d proven himself to be abusive, to be possessive and over bearing, that still hurt deep into her heart and soul. It hurt every time she breathed. And maybe that’s why she wasn’t ready to let anyone else in again.

“Feyre.” Tamlin’s voice was suplicant now, pleading. “Please come home.”

Feyre’s breaths was coming in hard shudders as she leaned into the wall, putting her head back and sliding to the floor. She felt hot and cold all at the same time, her heart racing and her hands trembling and her fingers completely numb. She couldn’t see anything but the black dots on her vision, making so, so dizzy. “I—”

“Feyre, please.”

Suddenly the door of the bathroom sprang open, startling her into mortification at her current state. “—Feyre, what’s taking you so—” Mor stopped, taking in the scene before her. Feyre, a small ball on the ground, hands around her knees, one hand holding her cellphone to her ear. Pale and breathing as heavy as if she’d run a marathon and clearly in some kind of distress. Mor ran to her, kneeling beside her and putting a hand to her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Feyre.” Tamlin said, the arrogance and annoyance in his voice palpable. “Who is that?”

Feyre couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, couldn’t breath. It was too much, all too much. She truly, honestly didn’t know what to do. So she did the only thing she could. She started to cry.

As Mor put her arms around her, she let the phone slip from her hands, not caring about the voice—that damn voice that kept haunting her—that was still at the other side of the line. She let herself be held, let herself cry—for what had to be the very first time since Tamlin—into those arms, let everything else go.

After a while she felt her sobs calm down, felt her breathing come back to normal, felt her heart stop beating so damn fast. And Mor asked, “What happened?”

“I don't—”

“Feyre,” her roommate said, voice gentle and caring. “I know that it’s difficult, I know that talking about what hurts us can break us further, but it’s how we get better. It’s how heal.” she brushed Feyre’s hair back from her face. “Please, please talk to me.”

Feyre opened and closed her mouth, unsure of herself, unsure if she could trust herself with these words, unsure if she was ready for them. She gestured to the phone, now silent and hung up, and Mor said, “How about I tell you something first, and then, if you’re comfortable, you’ll tell me?” she asked, smiling reassuringly. Feyre nodded. “Have I ever told you,” she sat down beside Feyre, leaning her back into the wall, grabbing her hand and holding it on her lap. “Why I have such a bad relationship with my dad?”

She shook her head, taking another deep breath.

“Well,” she started. “My dad has always resented me because my mother died giving birth to me. They were very young when they had me, and very in love, or so my aunt—Rhys’ mom—tells me. And he’s never been able to forgive me for taking her away from him.” she admitted.

“Mor, I’m so sorry.” Feyre said.

“It’s all right.” she sighed. “Well, no, it’s not. But I’ve learned to deal with it in my own way.” she ran the hand that wasn’t holding Feyre’s through her hair and took a deep breath before continuing. “But that isn’t everything.” she cleared her throat. “He thought that the Academy wasn’t far enough away from him. No, it wasn’t space enough between us. So he wanted me to go to a nunnery school in France.”

“What?” Feyre would’ve laughed if this wasn’t a serious subject. “Seriously?”

“Yes, I know.” Mor bobbed her head. “So, at the age of fifteen, I thought the only way to stop it was to lose my virginity—as if that had anything to do with it. But you know, as nuns have to be celibate, I thought it would change my chances of getting in.” she rolled her eyes at her own stupidity. “And so, I asked the first guy friend I had to have sex with me.” she continued. “And he did. Cassian did.” she put a hand on her face. “It was during a Christmas party at Rhys’ house. My dad caught us in the middle of it.”

“Oh, no.” Feyre found herself saying, thoroughly invested in the story.

“Oh, yes.” Mor laughed bitterly. “He was furious. Dragged me out of the room naked as the day I was born, and into the car. The whole party saw me naked.” a tear of shame slid down her perfect face and she wiped it away, shaking her head. “But the worst part, the part I still remember to this day, is that when we got home, he took off his belt, threw me on the floor and beat me until I bled. Until I could feel the shame I had brought him. Until I could feel what a disappointment I was to him.”

Feyre didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to tell her that she was so special, so important, so—amazing. So she just threw her arms around her friend. “You’re here, though. That’s what matters.”

“Ha!” Mor laughed through her tears. “Like perfect Kier could send a tainted daughter to play with the little nuns. I would set fire to the place.”

“Yeah, you probably would.” Feyre admitted.

Her problems felt so small suddenly, so unimportant, so minimal. But they were still there, suffocating her, hurting with each breath, each beat of her heart, each movement. So she decided to trust. To trust and love and take the plunge.

Feyre took a deep breath. And started talking.

 

 

 

When they returned to their table, their friends were already getting up to leave.

“Feyre!” Amren said. “Mor! What took you so long?”

Mor looked at her, searching her face, looking for the panic she’d seen before, but found only trust and a small smile that said I’ll go with whatever you say. “Feyre had some things she needed to talk about.”

“You’re okay, though, right?” Rhysand’s tone was full of worry, full of concern and genuine caring for her in a way that was completely different from Mor’s. It made her want to melt into him, want to be in his arms for a moment, just for a moment. But she couldn’t, she had to remind herself, she couldn’t. “Feyre, darling?”

“Yes. I’m all right.” she smiled reassuringly at him, though it didn’t really feel that genuine. “Where are you guys headed?”

“Well,” Amren said, adjusting the strap of her purse. “I’m going to the bookstore to get a book on Joan of Arc. Cassian and Az are headed to a small soccer game, and Mor, are you still going to buy wine?”

“Oh, yes,” Mor said, perking up at the topic.

“What about you, Feyre, darling?” Rhysand said, leaning into the booth with his legs crossed at the ankles. He had one hand at his waist and the other roaming through his gorgeous blue-black hair, and his shirt lifted a bit at his mid-drift at the movement, leaving a tan line of skin exposed.

“Well, I wanted to go to the movies,” she started, and shook her head. “But I blew all my money on that Vinyl, so—”

“Oh, I would love a movie right now.” Rhys said, eyes bearing holes into hers. “What do you say I pay for you this time and you can pay for the next? We can make it a regular thing.”

Feyre was ready to say no, ready to decline, because she couldn’t be in the dark with him, couldn’t trust herself to sit by his side, smelling his scent, feeling his warmth, hearing his laugh. But than Mor said, “I think that’s a great idea, Fey. It’ll help take your mind off of things.”

And just like that she was trapped.

They went their separate ways, saying their goodbyes with hugs and kisses and waves as if they wouldn’t see each other for weeks instead of hours or minutes.

Feyre fell into step beside Rhysand, her hand feeling too close, much too close to his for her comfort. They ended up at a small movie theater that featured three films, a romantic comedy, a drama, and a horror flick. Perfect.

They got their tickets and Rhys insisted in buying her a huge bucket of popcorn and a soda, along with one for him. “So, you’re a fan of horror films, huh?” he said as they entered the movie theater.

“Oh, yes.” she said, giddy at the mere thought of it. And how perfect and non romantic it was for the moment. Tamlin had always hated this side of her, the side that liked action and gore and wasn’t particularly feminine. He’d hated going to the movies with her, watching these kinds of movies with her. It’s not proper for a lady, he’d said. Still, she’d continued to love them, and had gone alone. “Once, I went alone to watch Saw III, and I got startled suddenly and I grabbed a stranger’s hand. It was mortifying.”

Rhys burst out laughing.

“It’s not funny! The guy looked at me like I was crazy.”

He continued to laugh. They got into their seats and sat down. “I can’t say I’ve watched that many horror flicks, but Nightmare On Elm Street is definitely one crazy film.”

“That’s one of my favorite movies ever!” she said, much too loudly for the quiet movie theater. People shushed her and she blushed deep red, embarrassed.

“Aw, Feyre, darling. You’re blushing for that? You’re too pure for this world.”

She punched him. Then shushed him herself as the movie started.

At first, she wasn’t very scared at all. It started mellow and happy, like they always did. A story about a woman with strange dreams and a husband that played football. Then it turned sad, as the husband entered a coma. And her dreams kept getting stranger and stranger. And suddenly it turned very, very scary.

The movie gave Feyre such a fright that she reached out and grabbed the hand beside her own. Rhysand’s hand. He startled.

“Sorry.” she blushed.

“No, it’s okay.” he whispered back, looking at their linked hands. She pulled her arm back. “No, listen, Feyre,” he started.

“Rhys—”

“Just listen for a moment.” he said. “We’re friends.” he enunciated the word friends like it was the most important thing of the whole phrase. “Friends can hold hands when they’re scared, right?”

“I guess.” she relented. And then he grabbed her hand, intertwining their fingers and resting them on their shared armrest.

Feyre could feel the warmth of him through his hand, could smell the cirtus and the sea coming from so close beside her, could sense the beating of his heart—beating so fast, so, so fast, almost as fast as her own. As the movie continued, Rhys started to rub circles over the top of her hand, squeezing it reassuringly when he realized she was scared. It was so nice, to just hold his hand, no expectations, no strings attached, no complications, that she forgot herself. She leaned in and put her head on his shoulder, taking in the smell of his hair, the sturdiness of his muscles, the warmth of him.

And then, Feyre realized she really was in such deep, unending shit.


End file.
